


music, music everywhere

by wedelia



Category: John Mulaney & The Sack Lunch Bunch, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Crack Crossover, Dimension Travel, Gen, John Mulaney References, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Mid-Credits Scene Compliant, Quentin Beck is Mr. Music, only in new york
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:56:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21942517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wedelia/pseuds/wedelia
Summary: Peter Parker meets Mr. Music, an alternate version of Quentin Beck who eschews instruments and disapproves of Mysterio’s use of drones.(Inspired by Jake Gyllenhaal’s character in John Mulaney’s new Netflix special.)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 49





	music, music everywhere

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas! I have no justification for this, except that I love John Mulaney and the idea of Mr. Music and Mysterio existing in the same universe made me laugh. If you haven't seen the Mulaney Netflix show that came out today, go watch it before reading this!
> 
> (An update for anyone who is waiting on the next chapter of Oh Snap, if you happen to be reading this, too: it's 90% finished! Should be up in the next week.)

When Quentin Beck leaves the studio after his disastrous stint as Mr. Music, exhausted from a late night of trying on clothes that he already owned followed by a performance in an under-rehearsed musical number, he’s too frustrated and generally world-weary to care that he’s leaving his daughter behind with her castmates or that a vortex into another dimension is opening up on the crosswalk in front of him. Actually—wait—he blinks and tries to take a second look at the vortex, except suddenly he’s falling into it, what the _fuck_ , he’s never doing Mulaney a favor again—

Quentin lands half on the sidewalk and half on the street. A horn blares in his ear as a taxi drives past, and Quentin staggers to his feet, ankle still tender from twisting it earlier. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says, vehement, because he’s not filming a bit for children’s television anymore, so he can swear now. What even was that?

He doesn’t have time to dwell on the fact that he’s just been transported through a vortex—if that wasn’t just a sign of some kind of Mr. Music-induced mental breakdown—as suddenly there’s a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. He turns around to see a weird man in a red suit with a spider emblem across the front.

“What are you doing here?” the man asks. The eyes on his mask seem to narrow, though Quentin’s not sure if that’s actually possible or if this is all part of some weird dream. 

_Maybe that’s it,_ Quentin thinks, hopeful. _Maybe I’m dreaming._ It’s possible that he fell asleep without realizing and everything that’s happened since last night had been part of a nightmare. That would be the ideal situation. 

But he guesses that if this was a dream his ankle wouldn’t be throbbing so painfully. 

“Do I know you?” Quentin says, polite. 

“I don’t know what your game is, Mysterio,” the man—kid? Quentin thinks that sounds like a teenager’s voice—says, “but I’m taking you to Stark Tower.” 

Quentin seriously considers putting up a fight. But then he figures that his day has already gone badly enough without factoring in needlessly upsetting a stranger who is likely insane. He resigns himself to just going along with whatever this is until he sees an easy escape route. (Maybe he can slip away into the crowd of pedestrians?)

But then the stranger _lifts him up_ (which is impressive by itself, because Quentin hasn’t met many people who can casually lift a grown man), put out an arm, and—Quentin nearly has a heart attack— _swings_ them, building by building, through the streets of New York. 

“What the fuck, man,” Quentin screams. He’s holding on for dear life. 

The guy seems to wince. It’s amazing how expressive he manages to be while wearing a mask. He says, “You know sensitive my hearing is, Beck. Stop yelling.”

“I don’t know anything about you,” Quentin says, moderately quieter but still so loud he’s almost shouting. “Except that you’re abducting me! And how do you know my name?”

The guy scoffs. “Don’t play dumb.”

Quentin wonders if he should be offended. “Hey,” he protests. He gets ready to give this weird web-slinging kidnapper a piece of his mind—

—and then they’re landing on the balcony of a sleek-looking skyscraper with the word STARK on it, and Quentin’s so relieved to be on solid ground again that he could cry. 

The guy takes off his mask and yes, Quentin was right, it is a teenager under there. He glares at Quentin and asks, “What are you doing in New York, and why are you dressed like you’re doing a cosplay of the cover of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club?”

“I have _no idea_ what you’re talking about,” Quentin says. He’s getting kind of desperate. “Sergeant who? How did you do that swinging thing? That shouldn’t be possible. What the fuck. What do you want with me?”

Those words finally seem to give the teenager a second’s pause. He frowns and says, “I don’t know what you’re doing, but you don’t have to pretend like you don’t know a Beatles album. How else do you explain what you’re wearing?”

Quentin’s even more confused. “Beetles? Like the bugs? I get that you’re, uh”—Quentin eyes the spider on the guy’s suit—“interested in that kind of thing, but I don’t listen to music about bugs in my spare time.” Quentin softens his voice, trying to appeal to his kidnapper’s sympathetic side. “Is that why you brought me here? You thought I was also a fan of your favorite band? Because I get that having eccentric interests can be lonely, man, but you don’t have to resort to—”

“Stop,” the guy says, incredulous. “You’re telling me you don’t know who the Beatles are? One of the most recognizable bands of the twentieth century?”

Quentin bristles. “If they were that good, I would have heard about them.” 

“Peter,” says a disembodied female voice coming from the ceiling. Quentin startles and looks up. “The scan of security camera footage that you requested is complete. This man can’t be Quentin Beck, because Mysterio was caught on video in Florida thirty minutes ago.”

The guy—Peter, Quentin assumes—stills. “Thanks, Karen,” he says. “Could you call Mr. Stark, if you haven’t already? Tell him we have a situation.”

“Will do,” Karen says, cheerful. 

Quentin hopes that this is a good sign for his chances of getting out of here. 

“If you’re not Mysterio, who are you?” Peter asks. 

Quentin’s not really anyone—just an actor in between jobs, most of the time—but he says, feigning a European accent and gesturing to the multicolored outfit that he hadn’t bothered changing out of, “I’m Mr. Music.” Then, going back to his normal accent: “You know, from the kids’ show? I have no idea who this Mysterio person is. Sorry.”

Peter stares at Quentin, evaluating. Then the kid makes some kind of gesture with his hands that brings up a bright blue projection of a screen—he ignores Quentin’s quiet “woah”—and says, “FRIDAY, show a behind-the-scenes video of Mysterio.”

Peter gauges Quentin’s reaction as they watch the clip. Quentin’s only mildly interested at first, but as the video keeps playing and the face of the man in the odd costume is revealed, Quentin realizes that that’s _him._ Or at least someone who looks like he could be Quentin’s identical twin. 

And—infuriatingly—the man who could be Quentin’s twin is using drones. “What a loser,” Quentin says, without realizing that he’s speaking out loud. 

“What?” Peter asks. 

Quentin nods at the projection. “He’s using _drones._ ” His nose wrinkles. “They’re basically instruments. If that were me, I’d find ways to take advantage of the danger that already exists everywhere around us.”

Peter looks very confused. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear what you think.


End file.
